


Interview with the Devil

by Snegurochka



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-03
Updated: 2008-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:31:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snegurochka/pseuds/Snegurochka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three souls in hell. If they have an hour to talk about anything they'd like, they will end up putting their worst sins on the table in less than ten minutes. It's human nature, after all, and the finest form of punishment.</p><p>7,600 words. NC-17. Snape/Lupin, Tonks. Infidelity, non-con and some resulting trauma, DH-compliant marriages, pregnancies and deaths. Written for the Dark Side fest at lupin_snape. May 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interview with the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to summerborn, florahart and islandsmoke for the super helpful beta work.

**i. Lupin**

Right, then. Shall I sit here? This chair looks a bit wobbly. No, I mean, I'm not criticising you; I just want to make sure I won't end up on the floor once I sit down. No guarantees here, though, I suppose? Right. Should have seen that coming.

This room looks familiar. Have I been here before?

Ah, okay. You don't talk, I see. Very well. But in that case, how do I know what you want from me?

Bloody hell. Fine. If you won't answer, then I'll stop asking questions. I'll just talk away, then, shall I? Surely you have more important things to do than listen to my chatter, but all right.

Are you quite certain we couldn't go to a room with a window or two? It's just that the air is a bit close in here. Hard to breathe.

Ah. I see. This is confession, is it? It's my sins you want. You wouldn't be who you are if you didn't feed on sin. I've got plenty, you know. Yes, you already know that, I imagine, or I wouldn't even be here.

Fine. We'd better start with Tonks, then. But if we start with Tonks, we'll only end with Severus, and if we start with Severus, we'll have to end with Tonks, and I hate even saying both their names in the same sentence, so there it is, you've already got me: I'm in hell. I was before, though, back up there. Figuratively, and everything. From the moment I took her hand that night, I was in hell.

A bit melodramatic? Well, you're one to judge. And it's not like I didn't love her, you know, so quit looking at me like that or I won't bother telling you my side of the story.

All right, I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound defensive, but honestly, I'm tired of rehashing this.

I did love her, or at least, I came to feel something for her that must have approximated love as normal people experience it. We had a wedding, a house and a child. We woke up next to each other most mornings, and even in the middle of a war, we were able to cook breakfast and read the newspaper and make plans for the day. That's love, isn't it?

But I didn't dream about her, and I didn't miss her when we weren't together. The one I dreamed about and missed was the one I'd pushed away in the first place in order to be with her – now, isn't that ironic? _Love_, no, that isn't the right word for what I had with him. He would never have suffered the word, after all, and I never even formed the syllable in my head when we were together. That word wasn't strong enough, in a way, but I don't mean that as something happy or romantic.

I mean it in the way that my body physically hurt when we weren't together, or when I thought about the Muggles he might be killing right then, or how many ways he might be plotting to bring down the wizarding world. It would start in my stomach and curl upwards, outwards, digging into my chest and slicing out my arms. I could feel him in my mind sometimes, even from a distance, and I don't know if it was his magic or my imagination, but either way, it was torturous. I'd see visions of the two of us: tangled together on that awful bed in the flat I had to let after I left Grimmauld Place or against a wall at one of his dirty meeting places, his lips at my ear and his hands scraping at pieces of me, taking what he could in the time we had.

I always let him have everything, you know, every piece I could spare, and then some.

But he was exhausting. I did everything he'd ever asked of me and still, he didn't trust me. I'd shown him all my secrets, told him nothing but truths when I told everyone else nothing but lies, and still, all he wanted from me were mind games and rough sex.

"More, Lupin?" he drawled once, when I brought it up, reclining on the bed with a rare satisfied smirk after we were done. "What _more_ could you possibly want from me? A flat in London and some fresh basil growing on the fire escape?" He made a noise like spitting, and then draped an arm over me again and scraped his nails down my chest. "It is what it is. You are free to indulge in it, or not." With that he rose from the bed and stood over me for a moment, staring at my chest as the scratches sank in and morphed from fresh red to a muted, angry white.

Every man I'd ever loved had betrayed me; it would only be a matter of time before he did, too. It wasn't like I didn't know what he was doing in his spare time, after all. I mean, I _didn't _know, not exactly, because he wouldn't bloody tell me, but in theory, I knew he was still doing Voldemort's work, that he was still plotting our doom and killing our people.

So, I began to see her.

Not entirely, of course, not at first. But one evening she left her free hand sitting limp on the kitchen table while writing some notes with the other after an Order meeting, and I reached forward and took it. She glanced up at me, startled, and then gave me the widest, purest smile I'd ever seen. I drank her in, just through light touches like that, letting all the sunshine and radiance of her flow under my skin and drown out the darkness he had left me with. I felt relief with her. I didn't feel passion and I barely felt fondness, but I did feel relief.

She was not a man, and she'd never betrayed me. In my head, that would be enough.

So yes, if you really want to know, that was how it started. I still fucked Severus; how could I not? I told you: he had everything, every piece of me, and I couldn't let go of that. Yes, for at least two months, I still met with him when we could and pressed my body against his as though the world would end if we didn't bite and scratch and grind every bit of ourselves into the other, and then I would return to her flat and hold her hand, listening to her stories about the Ministry and laughing in all the right places, telling her she deserved better than me while stroking my thumb over her palm.

I told you I wasn't proud of it, and look around! Here's my punishment, right? I've yet to make very many good decisions in my life, after all.

My life. Yes. That's a funny one too, isn't it?

Look, I really don't understand why we have to keep going over this. I don't want to talk about it anymore. I lied to both of them. It's too late to change anything now, and anyway, I would probably make the same mistakes over again if given the chance, because that's just the sort of idiot I am. But you already knew that.

So, fine, you want me to keep talking? Fuck you. I'll keep talking. I'll tell you about our last night again, shall I? One week before Dumbledore died, I flung open the door to that dingy flat he kept and marched in, determined to end it once and for all. I pointed a finger at him, not bothering to wait for him to turn from his worktable.

"You're planning something," I said, as though that were anything new, "and you won't tell me what it is, and I hate that. I hate that you don't trust me, and if you can't trust me, then I can't do this anymore, because you just– you can't– " I had to stop and collect myself before I could even ask the damn question. "Why don't you fucking _trust_ me?"

He glanced over his shoulder, setting down his chopping knife and pulling his gloves off. He dropped them to the table with a loose _swish_ and turned to face me, his expression impassive. "You can't do this anymore?" he began in a bored voice. "Why, Lupin, are you breaking up with me?" He wasn't smiling, but his amusement with me was clear. I wanted to kick his face in.

"I can tell something's about to happen," I told him. "You're quieter, you fuck more, and you spend inordinate amounts of time smoking and staring at the ceiling afterwards. Your eyes are darker and your hands tremble just slightly, just a little bit, so little that nobody but me would ever notice, and the knots in your shoulders could cut stone, so don't smirk at me and make your little jokes." I knew I shouldn't say any of those things to him, but once I got started, I couldn't stop. "I've given you everything I have to give, risked the Order, the werewolves, even _Harry_ in order to be with you, and what have you risked? Nothing." I wanted to throw things at his head to make him understand. "Why, Severus? Why don't you trust me?"

He held my eyes and moved towards me slowly, his face still locked, and when he reached me, my heaving chest and clenched fists stark against his smooth calm, he lifted a hand to my chest and pressed his palm against it, leaning forward and inhaling deeply just above my shoulder. Then he moved to bring our foreheads close together, his thumb coming up to brush over my lower lip, and I took in a shuddering breath at the touch. He lifted the thumb away with grace and replaced it with his lips, his mouth soft against mine in a mere whisper of a kiss.

"Because you don't deserve it," he murmured.

The palm over my chest curled into a fist and in a swift second, he'd slammed my back against the wall and cupped my prick with his free hand, twisting it painfully. I gasped against him, my head falling back to the wall as my prick swelled, and his words had barely registered in my brain but I couldn't even care. "I do," I whispered fiercely, grabbing his head between my hands and pulling him in again, crushing my mouth to his. It was pure anger and passion, that kiss, and I drank him in, even knowing I would only spit him out later. "I deserve it," I gasped when we broke apart.

"Show me," he snarled, pointing to the floor, and I dropped to my knees without thinking, pulling my robes up and my trousers down, tearing them off one leg, and he followed me down in seconds, his own robes and trousers barely open. I closed my eyes as he prepared me, long fingers teasing me as that hot mouth fastened to my neck from behind me, soft lips moving insistently over my skin.

"I deserve it," I murmured again, moaning as he sank into me, his fingers bruising my hips but more from the intensity of his grip than the force of his thrusts, and I sat up, moving back on my heels to sit almost in his lap as he knelt behind me and fucked me, pulling him in deeper and letting him wrap his arms around my chest, hauling me back onto his cock over and over again.

"You lie to me," he whispered in my ear, his fingers smoothing through my hair, "and I lie to you. It's the way it's always been, Lupin. Don't ask me to change that now." He tugged at my chin to turn my face to the side, seeking my lips and kissing me thoroughly as he surged inside me, his chest heaving against my back and his hands trembling. I shuddered in his arms as he pulsed inside me, my own orgasm close behind.

I closed my eyes and tried to absorb as much of that room as I could, as much of him as he'd allow, letting the last vestiges of his touch seep under my skin and gnaw at me as I slowly rose, dressed and left. I knew I would not return. He was right not to trust me, just as I was right not to trust him. It had been madness ever to think things were different.

Fifteen minutes later, I was having tea with her, holding her hand across the table and asking her to be patient with me, lying to her and explaining that it was difficult for me because I'd never been in love before, that I didn't know where to begin.

She nodded and squeezed my hand, her head tilted to the side in concern and her skin glowing, light and rosy and the exact opposite of mine, and I knew right then that if I could only find a way to be with her, the lies would stop. They would no longer fall so easily from my lips and I would no longer have to keep my guard up, protecting myself from the imminent Death Eater deceit I always suspected of him.

I would stop sneaking around in shadows. I would live free and in the open for once, with love encasing me and the weight of my darker inclinations lifted from my shoulders.

She was good and pure and glowed like sunshine, after all. She would never lie to me.

***

**ii. Snape**

So, it's like this, is it? I should have known. I will not sit in that chair, and I will not confess to you that which you are already quite aware. This is not torture; it is _boring_. You are only torturing yourself by having to listen to it.

Fine.

The silence is more repellent to me than the sins, so if you insist, I shall tell it to you again.

He began to smell like her; that was how I knew.

There were other signs too, of course: the sickening black of full moon dirt no longer crusted under his fingernails, his jaw was no longer darkened with careless bristles, his eyes no longer deadened at the sight of the shards of his life splayed around him. But it was the smell that got to me the most, crawling under my skin whenever he was near and mocking me with its freshness, its victory.

He smelled like relief instead of anger, triumph instead of sorrow. He smelled like the woman who got exactly what she wanted, whose life fell perfectly into place the moment I raised my wand and executed Hogwarts' headmaster.

Do not be fooled into thinking the two were not one and the same. Lupin did not fall apart at hearing the news – on the contrary, he came alive in ways he had not done in years. Finally free of me, he went to her and never looked back. There was only so much betrayal a man could take from his friends and lovers, after all, or at least, that was surely what he would say about the matter.

But I wouldn't know that, as I had not spoken to him in some weeks, when the event I am about to relate to you happened. Dumbledore was dead and buried, I was trying not to be found, and I had neither the time nor energy to spend my days wondering what Lupin, of all people, thought of me. The last time we met, he had arrived to tell me it was over, and left twenty minutes later with the imprint of my fingers still blue and blunt around his hips. He tried to tell me all the reasons he was so trustworthy, and in the end, he still bent over for me while smelling like her.

Trustworthy, indeed.

What has he told you – that I coerced him into falling in love with me, forced him to spend his nights on his back with his legs over my shoulders, grunting and sweating and pushing her completely out of his mind, convincing himself that he had no need for her youth and beauty, her smooth skin and her pink, wet mouth? Has he told you that I was the enemy, that I forced his infidelity because I did not trust him, that _I_ was the bad man, the devil who lured him, naked and innocent, into my bed?

He lies.

You are God's messenger, are you not? You cannot lure those who do not wish to follow. Ah, it surprises you that I should say this? Nonsense. Look carefully at one of life's only truths: the devil will never show himself until it is too late, and by then, one will already have agreed to his conditions. How do you think I got here?

It was July when it happened, fresh and green. They were to marry soon, I suspected, and why not? They deserved each other, which was why I confess to being surprised when the devil arrived on my doorstep one night, wearing Lupin's renewed two-day stubble and fingernail grit.

I did not think anyone had the tools to find me at that point. Dumbledore was dead, after all, and the Order had a price on my head. I slid my wand out of my sleeve and opened the door cautiously. Whoever this was, there was a reason he wanted me fooled. I had to be careful.

"Lupin," I said with a nod, leaning against the doorframe and perversely enjoying the moment of melodrama.

The figure before me was nervous, unsettled, running his hands through his hair and over his face, refusing to look at me. "Are you going to let me in?" he muttered at last, his eyes somewhere over my shoulder.

I shrugged and stepped aside, closing the door behind us and settling back against it, while he paced in the front hall. I watched him intently, running through a list of names in my mind. After a long, silent moment, I sighed, saying what I would be expected to say to him. "You shouldn't be here."

His head snapped up at that. "What do you mean?"

I raised an eyebrow. "I am a Death Eater. You are not. I am also a murderer, as you now know. The line is quite clear, I thought."

"Oh." He dropped his eyes again. "Right. That. I thought you meant–" He stopped, turning away from me.

I let the silence linger before speaking again. "You thought I meant what?" I said slowly, comprehension dawning. He was fidgety and unconfident. God, of _course_. But I had to be sure. I moved towards him from behind and reached around to unclasp his cloak. I lifted it off his shoulders to no resistance and felt the shudder that ran down his spine. I leaned in just under his ear and inhaled. All at once, the scent of her washed over me, stronger than ever, and my careful mask nearly collapsed in the wave of rage that followed. With my lips close to his neck, I slowly whispered, "That you shouldn't be here because it's been nearly a month since we last fucked, and too much has changed in the world since then?"

He closed his eyes and his body sagged, life seeming to drip out of his hanging fingers and slumped shoulders at this statement, and my eyes narrowed. Triumph. He swayed, a hand belatedly flying up to land on the wall beside him. "Don't say that," he murmured.

"You don't wish to hear about the changes in the world?" I let my hands slide down his arms from behind him, my lips still hovering over his ear. "Or perhaps you don't wish to hear about the fucking." I paused, and he said nothing. "I don't need to say the words anyway, do I? Surely you remember exactly how it felt."

He turned sharply in my arms, his eyes suddenly ablaze and his fist clenched in the front of my robes. He searched my face, looking for what, I cannot imagine. "Fuck you," he spat at me, and I nearly missed a breath at the sudden vision I had of the real Lupin, of the anger he had carried that last time we –

I pulled him against me and felt his body respond, just like always, just the way it used to, boiling first and simmering only later, after the first burst of electricity had worn off. But the voltage burned differently this time, the passion drowning under currents of rage.

"Fuck you," he said again, struggling, but I held him fast and whirled him around, pinching my thumb and forefinger into the back of his neck as his cheek mashed into the wall.

"Shut up," I growled. "You have no right to come here, not with the stench of her all over you."

He closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring with each panting breath.

"Did you come here with an explanation, or just hoping for another go?"

"I came here because I wanted to see you," he ground out between clenched teeth. "Because I– haven't been able to love her." He swallowed. "Not when I still love you."

The air paused in the hall, hovering atop nothing at all but the huffs of our staccato breath.

Later, I would regret what I was about to do. Later, I reflected on the moment and wondered why my first instinct upon hearing those words from his lips was not gratitude or joy, but curling, knotting rage. It began deep in my stomach and crawled outward, snaking up my chest and down my arms, prickling at my fingertips and exploding in my mind. But at that moment, I did not care.

"I'll tell you about love," I whispered, silent spells melting the clothing from his body as I pushed up against his back, ensuring he could not move. My lips touched the shell of his ear, and the moment should have been rapid and violent, but it was not. It ached with deliberation, all the more regrettable because I was not out of my mind, blinded by anger and passion. I was in control. I made my decision.

"No," he breathed, his face flushed and his naked body shivering. "Please, don't do this." I peered over his shoulder, and his limp cock only fuelled my actions.

"I said I was going to tell you about love," I repeated, louder this time. I planted one hand flat between his shoulder blades and dropped the other down, roughly fingering him and pulling his cleft apart. "Love is not soppy declarations like this, showing up on my doorstep with hearts in your fucking eyes." My control was slipping. I took a deep breath, murmuring a spell to slick my fingers as they entered him. The tears that welled up in his eyes angered me even more. "Love is not dates to Hogsmeade like a fifteen-year-old student, sipping tea together at Madam Puddifoot's and shyly holding hands."

"Stop it, Snape," he spat, his voice steadier now. "You don't want to do this."

I pulled back a moment to open my robes and wordlessly spell my prick hard. "Oh no, you're quite wrong. This is exactly what I want to do. You've done nothing but make my life miserable since the moment you walked back into it." I shoved my prick into his cleft and slid it down slowly, making sure my breath was still hot on his neck, words of the devil sinking into his ear. "You are trained in the defensive arts, are you not?" I added, licking my lips. "A full member of the famous Order of the Phoenix, and yet you cannot slip away from a single Death Eater who hasn't even raised his wand to you?"

His bottom lip trembled and his breathing sped up again. I could almost see the fog of it on the wall in front of him. He closed his eyes, light-coloured lashes sweeping over the crest of his cheek where a pretty flush had spread. I was not immune, much as I wish I had been.

I wanted him.

My prick began to ache as real desire overtook the spell, and visions assaulted my mind of just how rough he used to want it from me, pinned down to the floor, over a desk or against a wall. Sex like that should have become exhausting after a time; the novelty should have worn off. But every time over the past two years that he had shown up like that and taunted me, I had proven unable to resist slamming him up against a hard surface and shoving myself inside him. It was beastly. It was ghastly. It suited us well – two beastly, ghastly men.

I felt him spasm around me as I forced my way inside, crushing him into the wall with my fingers digging into his bare shoulders and my hips flush against his arse. I couldn't get deep enough at that angle and dropped my arms to his waist, hauling his hips back and bending him over. His curled fingers scrabbled at the wall as if trying to hold on to the edge of the Astronomy Tower, legs flailing out and nothing but a hundred metre drop beneath him. I sank in deeper.

"_Love_," I continued, barely recognising my own voice as I slammed forward, the friction too tight to be pleasant, "should hurt you more than anything else ever has. It is not bells and chapels and meeting her fucking parents. It is not a house with a garden and a pack of pink-haired children running around and calling you _Daddy_." A pained sob left his throat as I thrust, his arse tight and awkward around me.

"Stop it," he gasped, his head hanging between his shoulders. "It's not wrong to want those things."

"Does it hurt yet?" I shouted, making sure my grip was bruising his hips and thighs. "Does it– fucking– hurt?" I couldn't come this way, not without squeezing my eyes shut and picturing him, a different him, the _real_ him, the way he used to be, back when he wanted me. I watched the reel in my mind of the way his stomach muscles clenched when he came over top of me, writhing and sighing and bending to bite at my neck afterwards; the way his eyes darkened before the full moon, specks of black holding me in place with one feral look; the way he always breathed my name when I pushed inside him, drawing out each of the three syllables even if his fist was in his mouth or his teeth were puncturing a pillow.

I moaned at the memories, coming in pulsing waves inside him one last time, my robes hanging limp down the sides of his naked body and his arse shuddering around me. I pulled out as quickly as I could, not pausing to draw out the moment, kiss the back of his neck, cuddle behind him or do any other of those ridiculous motions lovers play-act. He could do those things with her, not with me. Not any longer.

I took a step back and felt my throat clench around a wave of rising bile, knowing that whatever else I had done in my life, _this_ had sealed my admission to hell. I turned my back as he slowly bent to retrieve his clothes and dress with shaking hands, saying nothing. He left without another word.

Did I get the revenge I'd wanted for so long? Perhaps. That is for you to decide, after all.

I am tired of this. I see what you are doing, and it is clever, I'll give you that. I wish I'd thought of it, in fact. You have failed to take into account, however, that I already endured my punishment, long before I arrived here. In the final year of my life, I watched him marry her and conceive a child with her. Whatever punishment I thought I was inflicting on her that day, it did not hold. She still got everything she wanted.

She got him.

He no longer looked at me or thought of me.

That was my hell.

***

**iii. Tonks**

He used to wear a condom _and_ use contraceptive spells, you know – on his prick and on my bits downstairs. Every single time. _We can't risk it, Dora_, he'd say, and for a while, I believed him. But then I thought about it a bit more.

My own fucking boyfriend, yeah? What was he so afraid of? Oh, that's an easy one. It had nothing to do with the werewolf blood or the fear of having a little sprog who'd have to suffer like he did every month. I might even understand it if that had been the reason, but he was the one who told me that the chances of his little swimmers making it upstream was about the same as You-Know-Who himself coming 'round for a cup of tea and a chat about _Witch Weekly_'s lingerie catalogue. But it was a way to keep a nice bit of distance, wasn't it? Even if there was a tiny chance, less than five per-fucking-cent, that I'd get pregnant, he didn't want to take it.

Now that's true love, isn't it? _Sure, I'll shag you, but I won't be around in the morning, or the next day, or a year or two down the road, all right? Got to keep my options open, and all that_. Do you know what options he was keeping open? Do you have any fucking clue? I'll tell you: that murderer, Death Eater, and all around dickhead extraordinaire, Severus Snape. I dropped Remus all the hints I could for two sodding years, and he ignored every single one of them because he'd rather shag Severus fucking Snape.

You got a fag? I could really use a fag right now. Yeah, that's it. Thanks, mate. I'm not saying I want to stay here forever or nothing, but maybe you're a bit of all right. No one else has ever listened to my side of things, anyway.

Or maybe I just know I belong here. I ain't proud of what I did, you know. Anyway. Where was I? Yeah. Snape.

I wasn't supposed to find out, obviously, and I didn't mean to. He was careful; I'll give him that. I had top marks in Tracking back at the Academy and I still didn't figure it out right away. Molly had the fucking nerve to ask if we were _exclusive_, when I told her I suspected he was having a bit on the side in between our endless tea dates; can you believe that? We might not have been shagging yet, but it was coming; we were dating, _really_ dating, getting to know each other and taking it slow.

"Well, yes, but you aren't engaged, dear," she said. "Sometimes people – well, _men_ – have a different idea about these things than we do. I swear to Merlin, I had all my bridesmaids lined up _and_ the flowers ordered, by the time Arthur took my hand one night and said, 'Molly, dear, I'd like it if we didn't see other people anymore.' I nearly boxed his ears!"

Look, Arthur's a sweet man, but he couldn't find his own arse with both hands and a map, yeah? I never would have believed Remus thought about things that way. The night after that battle at Hogwarts – the first one, I mean, the night Dumbledore died and I made an arse of myself in the hospital – he came to me, you know. He looked like shit and smelled worse, to be honest, and I don't think I've ever seen his eyes that colour – and I'd have noticed, since I watched him quite a bit, before. He didn't want to shag, which was all right, but he kissed me, that first kiss that I'll never forget, long and deep with his thumbs on my cheeks and his entire body shaking next to me, and he told me that everything was different now, that he could be with me at last.

"I thought you were too old and too poor," I said, pulling back and smiling at him and just trying to keep it together, you know? Because God and fuck, I'd been dreaming about that moment for _years_, and finally here he was, in my house, kissing me and telling me we could be together.

"I am," he said, collapsing to the sofa, "and many other things besides, but you are–" He waved his hands helplessly, the shadows seeming to deepen under his eyes as I looked at him – "young and light and, I don't know, _shining_, like some twinkling little star, honestly, and you just, you make me– feel better. About things that– don't twinkle so much." He dropped his head between his shoulders and groaned. "I'm not very good at this."

Well, that was a fucking understatement, but he was there, and he kissed me again, and it wasn't quite the romantic moment I'd imagined it would be, but it was enough.

I finally got him into bed a few nights later, after he'd spent a good five minutes just staring, jaw dropped, at my naked body like he'd never seen one before. Christ. But he was good enough: patient and loving and he felt good, you know? Even with his dick wrapped in eight layers of plastic, or whatever it was. He was finally _mine_; that was all that mattered.

A week later, he started talking in his sleep.

No, look, I've told you that stuff before, what he said. It doesn't matter anymore. All I wanted to know was if it was true, or just his sick fantasy. I tried asking him about it, but that didn't really work.

"My past?" he said. "Oh. No, I don't think you really want to hear about–"

"Yes, I do," I said firmly. "I mean, I just want to– know you better. Trust, and all that." I laughed to cover my nerves. "I can list mine on one hand, you know. Well, less than one hand. You're my third, and the first two don't count because they were idiot boys, and you're just, you're not that at all; you're older and more experienced and _brilliant_, really, and–" God, stop talking, I told myself, but I couldn't, because it was all true. I just wanted him to see everything in me that I saw in him, you know?

"Third," he muttered, running a hand over his face. "God, you're so young. This is insane." When he looked up at me again, his eyes were hollow and his cheeks seemed to have sunken in even further than thirty seconds earlier.

I felt my eyes well up. Dammit! Fucking hell. _No_. I shook my head, biting my lip to keep it from trembling. "No, no. I'm not too young. Don't say that."

"Dora, look, it's just that–"

"Don't say it!" I snapped. "Don't do this."

He swallowed. "Maybe this was a bad idea," he muttered, but I just kept shaking my head.

"I just want to be with you." I hated the way my voice sounded, but I kept going. "I want to have a family with you, a _life_. We could have that, couldn't we? Think about it, Remus! Don't you deserve to have all that?"

He stared at me. "A family?" He blinked. "There's a war on, and even if there wasn't, I can't– a _family_? You do understand that werewolves usually can't have children, don't you? That's why I keep saying that you're better off with someone who–"

"I'm not better off! I want _you_." I grabbed his hand. "Jesus, unwrap your dick a bit and we can at least try, can't we? Maybe it would work! We don't know unless we try, and–"

"Tonks... no. We can't try. I don't want to."

And that was it. We'd barely even begun, and already he was slipping away from me. I swear to you, if Severus Snape had walked in that house right then, I would have ripped his dick off and shoved it down his throat, I was so angry at him. _He_ was the person Remus moaned over in his sleep, lifting his hips up and curling the sheets between his fingers? Not if I could fucking help it. I didn't know what the fuck had happened between them, or if it was all in Remus's head, but I was bloody well going to find out.

There was only one way to get him to talk, I figured, and to be honest about what he said. Look, I told you I wasn't proud of it, but I'm also not an idiot, despite what both Remus _and_ Snape think. This was the only way. I didn't mail away for that Auror badge, yeah? I had ways to find him, but as soon as he opened the door, I couldn't even be arsed to care about Dumbledore. There: what does that tell you about my priorities? Fuck.

I don't know what I expected him to say, but hearing the words from his mouth that they'd _fucked_ – that word, harsh and clipped like that – made my hands begin to shake so badly I could hardly control them. It hadn't been in the past, either. It had been Remus's present, mere _weeks_ ago, Snape said, and maybe the two of us hadn't messed around yet, but we were _together_, he was making promises to me and we were already –

My head swam and my body went numb. I let him do what he wanted, shutting down my mind and refusing to think about the fact that he thought I was Remus, and _that was what they did_, with blood and choked cries against walls. Snape thought it all was perfectly normal, didn't he? Fucking through that kind of violence was _normal_ to him, just another way to get his dick wet, and I had to bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from throwing up.

It hurt like nothing I'd ever felt before, but my limbs weren't working right, and I couldn't believe he was _actually _fucking doing it, and he was right that I could have got away, that I'm a member of the bloody Auror force and the Order of the fucking Phoenix, and he might have been You-Know-Who's right-hand man with his Dark spells but I knew just as much magic as he did, I was sure of it, but with every curling, hot breath on my neck I was less and less able to summon any of it.

I let him do it, and the whole time I thought only of Remus, and how he _liked_ this. My Remus. He'd been so tender with me in bed, so loving and hesitant and so worried about hurting me, and all the while, _this_ was what he really wanted.

Snape finally came, pulled out and shoved me aside, and all I remember thinking was, _Well, that's the fourth, then; Remus will be so glad I've got more experience now_, and nearly choking on the laugh that didn't come out.

I don't remember getting home or making tea. I don't remember changing back to my own body or wincing at the pain. I don't remember sitting down at the kitchen table and staring at the wall in front of me for nearly three hours.

But through it all, I couldn't stop seeing Remus's face – blinking at me kindly as I told him stories from work; taking my face in his hands and kissing me at last; staring out the window at the half moon and thinking he would never be normal, never have a wife and family like he deserved. Now I knew the extent of his self-punishment, the lengths he went to, to embrace what he thought was this _dark side_ of him, the side of the wolf and the blood and the danger.

But that wasn't the real him. I knew it wasn't. I needed him to understand that he didn't have to do those things! He didn't have to go to Snape and let that vile man ravage his body like that. He _could_ have happiness, a real family that loved him, if only he'd let me in.

No, don't make me think about it again, okay? I can't. You know what happened next. Please don't make me.

Why aren't there any windows in here? God, fuck, I just –

Okay, _fuck_, just stop looking at me like that! I can't do this with you looking at me like that.

The idea came to me as I sat there, okay? You know this part. I just– before I knew what I was doing, I'd reached for my wand on the table. At first I was just going to clean myself up, get rid of every trace of him and head up to the shower. But I picked my wand up and held it between my fingers for a long moment, just feeling the smooth wood settle my shaking hands. The form of the body it had gone into wouldn't matter, I didn't think – not if I did the spell right. It was still _my_ body, and my body had a uterus.

Snape hadn't worn a condom, I was quite sure of that, and contraceptive spells couldn't be done wordlessly.

It was my only chance, don't you see that? Why can't you understand? I don't belong here! I was just trying to save him, to make him see that he could have a normal life. I just loved him so much; is that a crime? I don't fucking know anymore, but I know that I'd do it again, so fuck you. Do you hear me? Fuck yourself.

I did the charm. It wasn't hard; just a reversal of the one most seventh-year girls learn to do when they're in a bind. I dropped my wand to the table and sat back, clutching my stomach as the spasms started. It hurt like fuck, even worse than when Snape –

It hurt, okay? It wasn't the right time, and things had to be rearranged in there for it to work, and so I sat there and cried, because what else could I do?

I was still sitting there when Remus came home, and I still hadn't even showered. He saw my puffy face and knotted hair and shaking hands and stood at the door, blinking at me.

"Is this about us?" he said, his eyes darting back and forth, and all right, I couldn't really blame him because yeah, I had a bit of a history of pitching fits at him, but still, _honestly_. I choked out a laugh, wiping my eyes.

"Yeah," I said, my voice hoarse. "It's about us." I closed my eyes. "I'm pregnant."

When I opened them, he was still standing there, still blinking at me. His mouth had dropped open a little bit, but that was the only change. "That's impossible," he said at last, and I could have hit him.

"No, it's not. It happened. Just takes one to get through, they say." I smiled weakly at him, and he gave a surprised, choked sort of laugh. "I know you said you didn't want this," I continued, "but think about it! It'll be fantastic, you'll see. You'll have a child, Remus, something you'd never thought you'd have, right? And I can– I mean, I know we need to work things out, but I want to try. I want to–"

He crossed over to me at last and knelt down, rubbing his palms over my thighs, nodding his head. "Okay," he said breathlessly. "Okay, just. Shh. We'll work it out. We'll find a way."

And then I couldn't stop crying, because I couldn't take it back now, I could never take it back, and it wasn't supposed to happen but it _did_, okay, it just did, and I don't even know what you want from me. Do you want my son, is that it? Do you have him somewhere, torturing him for what his mother did? What about what Snape did? What about what Remus did, sneaking around behind my back?

I was just trying to– I just –

Look, I've _told _you this already! Let me out of here, you fucker! Let me out! I can't do this. I can't stay here. I just– my _son_, he's up there and I just, I wanted him to have a good life. I wanted– all I wanted was for Remus to love me, okay? Is that really such a crime? I can't do this.

Why won't you let me go? Please let me go. I can't tell the story again. I can't do this anymore.

I just can't.

***

**i. Lupin**

Right, then. Shall I sit here? This chair looks a bit wobbly. No, I mean, I'm not criticising you; I just want to make sure I won't end up on the floor once I sit down. No guarantees here, though, I suppose? Right. Should have seen that coming.

This room looks familiar. Have I been here before?

Ah, okay. You don't talk, I see. Very well. But in that case, how do I know what you want from me?

Bloody hell. Fine. If you won't answer, then I'll stop asking questions. I'll just talk away, then, shall I? Surely you have more important things to do than listen to my chatter, but all right.

Are you quite certain we couldn't go to a room with a window or two? It's just that the air is a bit close in here. Hard to breathe.

Ah. I see. This is confession, is it? It's my sins you want. Wait. This seems so familiar. Are you sure I haven't –

Okay. Where should I start?

 

-fin-

**Note:** Although I didn't think of it while writing, enough perceptive readers have pointed out that this bears more than a passing resemblance to Sartre's _Huis Clos/No Exit_, that I feel I should acknowledge that. I've not read it myself, though, and any idea-copying was entirely inadvertent. :)


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